


Equilibrium

by m1masr00m



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: (again it's kinda ambiguous? i guess?), (or however you choose to read into it), Amputation, Blood and Injury, Emetophobia, Gore, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Gore, Platonic Relationships, Post Hope-arc, Post-Series, References to Illness, Self-Harm, wow aint the tags making this sound cheerful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m1masr00m/pseuds/m1masr00m
Summary: Between Ryota Mitarai and the Ultimate Imposter is a co-dependence, a symbiosis that neither of them is able to survive without.Something they need now more than ever.





	

The pair sat on the beach. Away from everything. Away from everyone. Across the sand were their classmates: Gundam was sculpting a towering mansion out of dark, damp grit that looked incredibly ominous. Sonia was watching him with stars in her eyes, her hands pressed to her pink cheeks. Kazuichi was there too, having long since given up on trying to one-up his romantic rival with a more impressive castle and, at this point, simply watching at the former princess’s side, flashing his monstrous teeth in an open-mouthed grin of fascination. Ibuki was in the sea with Mikan, Teruteru, Mahiru, and Fuyuhiko. They were playing a game, maybe; exactly what they were doing was uncertain, but it seemed to involve thwacking each other on the shoulder and then quickly disappearing under the water for some reason. Ibuki’s idea, obviously.

Peko was on the sand, observing; her back was to the Imposter, but they could envisage her cool serene smile as she watched her young master reluctantly have fun with friends in a way he had never been allowed to in his past. Who knew where Izuru and Nagito were. Nekomaru and Akane were down the beach somewhere to their right, scrapping, the sounds of their battle cries echoing across the entire island. Hiyoko was dozing under a parasol somewhere to their left, snoring quietly, her stylish sunglasses having fallen down her nose. Not that it was all that bright: the sun was there somewhere, buried behind layers of dense, mauve cloud that hung in the sky obstinately. Days where the sun actually came out were incredibly rare. Yet, there they all were, spending the long, lazy hours of the afternoon on the beach and, for the most part, acting like a bunch of kids.

Ryota sat next to the Imposter silently, both arms folded over his bony knees which were brought up to his chest. He wasn’t exactly dressed for the beach. In fact, far from it; he was swamped in one of Kazuichi’s horrendous neon hoodies, paired with a pair of Fuyuhiko’s swim trunks, because Ibuki had been desperate for him to come in the sea for once. He had agreed quietly, submissively, with that sweet, people-pleasing smile on his face, but the Imposter had a feeling he wouldn’t, because since he had been on the island he had not been swimming once. Exactly why that was they weren’t sure. The animator’s gaze was glued to his classmates in the distance, on Gundam and Sonia and Kazuichi on the sand ahead of them, on the other four in the water even further away. His eyes were totally blank, his face expressionless, unreadable. Empty.

‘I bought this,’ the Imposter spoke up, reaching into the rucksack at their side and pulling out a container of leftovers from last night’s meal. ‘Please eat; you haven’t had any food all day.’

Ryota didn’t budge, continuing to stare vacantly into the scattering of classmates across the beach. ‘Not true…’ His words lacked any conviction whatsoever.

‘You’re right,’ they started, taking hold of the young man’s cold, pale hands and forcibly folding them into a cup shape before firmly planting the thermos of nikujaga into his palms. ‘You haven’t had any food since brunch yesterday. Eat it. I’m not giving you a choice.’

The animator exhaled through his nose and finally turned his head to them, blinking his eyes slowly, heavily, but offering a weary smile before sluggishly manoeuvring himself into a cross-legged position to facilitate eating the stew. They breathed out; getting him to eat nowadays sometimes seemed even harder than it had been back when they were at the academy together. The Imposter wasn’t sure whether this was because they had changed, or because he had changed, or because they had _both_ changed. Probably the latter. But recently it seemed that he had been neglecting to look after himself, not because he was too focused on his work or because he forgot, but simply…because he didn’t _want_ to. And sometimes it proved impossible to make him. Yesterday had been one of those times; he had locked himself in his cottage (what had been Chiaki’s cottage during the simulation) after having been particularly quiet at brunch, pleading desperately with the Imposter from the other side of the door that he needed some time alone, that he was really exhausted and simply not hungry. He was in there for the rest of the day.

The Imposter hadn’t pressed him too hard about it because he was still so delicate, like the rest of them were. Because there were times to act like a concerned mother hen and yesterday really didn’t feel like one of them. Because they knew he was trying his best to cope with everything and they didn’t want to mess it up by being too forceful and overbearing, especially on his off-days, which, evidently, yesterday was one of. And they knew not to let it go too far like it had back at the academy, when he made himself seriously ill by not eating or sleeping for days. They wouldn’t let things get that bad ever again. Not now that the pair had been reunited. Not now that they were in a position to take care of him again.

Looking over at the animator right now he was eating the nikujaga in small bites, which made them pleased. The Imposter was overwhelmed with sudden nostalgia, with memories of a simpler time. A time before Junko Enoshima destroyed everything.

‘You’re going to the fireworks this evening, right? Not that you really have much of a choice, it’s all for Sonia after all.’

It was the former princess’s birthday. October 13th. That was something Sonia had remembered about herself. Not everyone on the island could say the same thing.

Ryota blew at the steaming meat on his spoon carefully. ‘…Yeah, I’ll be there.’ He smiled up at them weakly. ‘It’s not like I was able to get her a present, so it’s the least I can do…’

The Imposter chuckled. ‘And just how would you even go about getting a present? Mail ordering it?’

Ryota snickered and thumped them on the shoulder lightly with the hand holding the spoon. ‘Shut up, you know what I mean!’ They pair laughing together made the Imposter feel so warm. ‘Mioda wrote her that song, Koizumi made that scrapbook…I feel like I should have used my talent to make her present, but…’

And with that the mood under the parasol plummeted. The animator fell silent, drawing his hand away from their shoulder, placing his spoon into the stew, and beginning to fiddle with his little toe.

‘…I can’t…draw anything right now. At all.’

They raised an eyebrow. ‘Still?’

He nodded weakly. ‘Still.’

They sighed; he had confessed to them a little over a week ago, when he had first arrived on the island, that he was finding it hard to even think about anime. It made sense; the techniques he engineered through his animation had just about single-handedly sent the world spiralling into an abyss of sludgy, black despair. His work had compelled thousands of people to commit suicide in the most horrific and painful ways, had turned his classmates into an infamous league bloodthirsty terrorists and murderers. In a frenzied fit of desperation, he had tried to come back from this with his hope video, which had only played right into the hands of another seemingly benevolent figure who had only been out to manipulate and use him. Whether he knew the full extent of Tengan’s plans or not the Imposter still wasn’t sure, but nevertheless the whole thing had undoubtedly pushed him beyond some mental breaking point. It was no surprise that his passion for the medium had been tainted, that it only served to remind him of…everything.

‘You know, there’s no rush to recover from what happened. No one’s expecting for you to be okay right away…in fact, no one’s expecting any more from you than what you’re doing.’

Ryota was silent. Their hand instinctively wandered towards his shoulder but ended up pulling away, and they didn’t entirely know why. They prayed that he hadn’t noticed.

‘Honestly, Sonia will understand that using your talent right now is hard for you. We all do. For lots of us…it was the same way when we woke up from the program for the first time. Heck, even _now- ‘_

‘What about you?’

They stopped in their tracks. During their speech Ryota had raised his head to, once again, stare emptily at his classmates across the beach. A gust of wind yanked at strands of his unkempt, dulled hair. You?

Did he mean _them_? Or everyone else?

‘Pardon?’

He blinked and his eyes darted towards the Imposter. He still looked so damn exhausted. Were those horrific eye-bags of his ever going to fade?

‘Don’t play dumb; since I’ve been here you’ve…just about impersonated everyone on this island.’

A sickly lump formed in the back of their throat, a hand automatically lifting to tug at their tie.

‘I feel like that’s a bit of a stretch…’

Ryota closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. ‘Sagishi, in the last two days you’ve changed disguises five times. You really think I haven’t been paying attention?’

They swallowed; honestly, he had been acting so quietly distant recently, particularly around them where he didn’t feel compelled to put on any kind of front, that they hadn’t thought he’d really taken notice of how they’d been acting, of how dependent on their talent they’d become. Right now they were Fuyuhiko, in a snappy pin-striped suit and tie, with the gangster’s sandy, close-cut hair. They wore an eyepatch because it was easier than having to force one eye closed all the time. That morning they had been Koichi Kizakura. The day before they had been Munakata, then Mahiru, then Aoi Asahina.

The air was thick with silence. They inhaled.

‘…Alright then, let me ask you this,’ they started, their voice slightly shaky for some reason. ‘How would you define identity?’

Ryota glanced back at them and furrowed his brow, looking mildly annoyed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just answer the question, will you? And don’t forget about your stew, it’s getting cold.’

The animator rolled his eyes, picking up the container once again and resting it in his lap. He dragged one hand through his dishwater hair pensively, scratching at the nape of his neck, letting out a small yawn.

‘Erm…well, I guess…it’s just…who you are, isn’t it? Like, it’s what defines you…for you and then also for other people.’

Their lips curved upwards. ‘Put very simply, yes; it’s something that _defines_ you. It makes you concrete.’

Ryota nodded hesitantly, chewing slowly on a mouthful of nikujaga.

‘So what happens when you don’t have an identity? Or if you don’t have just one identity?’ they continued.

He swallowed, continuing to rub at the back of his neck with one hand as he thought.

‘…U-uh…well, I suppose…you’re just… _not_ concrete anymore, right? You can’t be…defined? Oh, I don’t know…’

Although he looked ashamed of his simple answer they nodded firmly.

‘Yes, you’re right. You become fluid, transient. You become _indefinable.’_

Ryota stared up at them attentively.

‘And if you are indefinable,’ they continued, ‘you become… _removed._ From the person that once existed, from their actions, from their words. You cannot be pinned down, neither by how others perceive you, nor by how you perceive yourself. _Fluidity_. A state of being…eternal. That is…that is what I have. And that is why…ever since I woke up I’ve just…I’ve been itching to avoid an existence based on a singular identity. Right now…what I need is to be fleeting, to distance myself from what I’ve done, from the identity I once had. And constantly impersonating someone different…well, it helps me to do that.’

The animator blinked. During their speech he had begun to look so dreadfully sad. Perhaps telling him all this was a terrible idea.

‘But…Sagishi…who you were when you were Ultimate Despair…that wasn’t you. You know that, right? It isn’t part of you…it’s not…it’s not your identity.’

They shrugged, their eyes fixed on the dull sea and the horizon. ‘You can say that. It’s certainly a valid argument. But…that person that I was…the way they felt, the things they did…it all still feels too real for me to say they were entirely separate from me.’

The Imposter could feel him staring into them, could feel how much he wanted to retaliate and say that the version of themself that loved despair was nothing but a ghost, a pale, corrupted imitation of the real Ultimate Imposter. But they couldn’t accept it. They wouldn’t accept it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

‘So…’ a tiny voice sounded beside them. ‘You…you still feel despair? I mean…you feel…you feel connected to the person you were back then…?’

They didn’t move.

‘…Yes, and no. I imagine all of us feel the same way, although it’s not something anyone really wants to discuss; I can recall the feelings I had as if I still had them. I can remember my thoughts, what drove me to act, my absolute _adoration_ for…for Enoshima, and despair, and not a whole lot else.’

Ryota swallowed and exhaled loudly, unsteadily.

‘…But, at the same time, I know that I’m not…brainwashed anymore, and I no longer crave those things. Let’s say…it feels like Ultimate Despair is an alter ego that is permanently locked away in the back of my mind, yet that I still have a certain access to. As I say, it’s very hard to explain. The Neo World Program…well, it was supposed to fully revert us, to wipe Ultimate Despair from our minds. But…well, as you know, things are more complicated than that.’ They turned to face him with a weak smile. ‘Nothing to be done about it now.’

The animator had gone pale, his eyes slightly glassy. The image immediately reminded them of being back at Hope’s Peak, when they’d find him in his room, hunched over his tablet, scribbling feverishly, on the brink of passing out because he had worked himself too hard again. It was that same shade of sickly ivory. If he was feeling obedient he’d allow himself to be sternly ushered to bed. If he was feeling stubborn he’d angrily ignore them until he started swaying in his seat, in which case they’d hoist him onto their shoulder and put him in bed themself, refusing to leave the room until he had definitely fallen asleep. That one time that he gave himself a fever…was one of the most frightening things that had ever happened to them. They could still hear the crack of his skull slamming against the floor, could see his motionless body sprawled out beneath them as the stylus that had been in his hands rolled across the room, could hear his laboured breathing and nonsensical ramblings about wanting to save the world. And then when they had pressed the back of their hand to his forehead his skin had been on fire with layers of sticky sweat clinging to his temples. Thank God Mikan had been there. Thank God they had been brave enough to put their faith in her.

‘It’s…it’s all just…it’s not _fair…’_ he spoke through shuddering breaths and gritted teeth, the fingers of one grey, bony hand flying upwards to grip and scratch at his hair. His eyes were wide, frenzied, slightly watery.  They could tell that he was blaming himself again, that that powerful and dangerous self-loathing was flaring up. They sighed.

‘It isn’t fair. But it’s the world we live in now. It is our life now. And…you know, day by day I’m more and more appreciative of it. Of the fact that I…that _we_ survived. That we’re all here together.’

Ryota dipped his head so they could no longer see his face. They hated not being able to see his face.

‘You should be, too. We all know you’re struggling…but we’re here for you.’ they added quietly. Again they found one hand drifting towards his shoulder but not quite having the courage to make contact. _Why?_ Why couldn’t the pair be around in each other in quite the same way anymore?

‘…I know that…you don’t need to keep reminding me…’

His voice was burning with something akin to resentment. They clenched their fist and swallowed down the urge to slap him or lecture him or both; he could be so difficult sometimes. The Imposter knew he still didn’t think he was worthy of his classmates’ friendship and it made them so _frustrated._

‘…I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while…’ he murmured, his head resting on his knees that he’d once again brought up to his chest.

That was abrupt. Surely he was trying to change the subject.

‘…What?’

They decided to run with it.

‘That scar…on Souda’s leg…what is it?’

Chills shot down the Imposter’s spine. Their gaze darted to the mechanic across the beach, to the huge dark red and purple welt running from his mid-thigh around to the side of his knee. Dark, foggy snapshots of that time exploded before their eyes and just for a second the sounds and images surrounding them went fuzzy, as if they had been plunged underwater. No. They had to be able to talk about this. They had to be able to face this. The sound of their own voice sent them hurtling back to reality, the cries of their classmates and the crashing of waves registering cleanly in the ears again.

‘I…I’ll tell you if you want, but I need you to…be sure you want to hear it…’

Ryota blinked, the rest of his body entirely motionless. His eyes were still damp, but his expression so blank, so defeated.

‘It’s…it’s pretty…gruesome is all,’ they continued, the strange nausea in the pit of their stomach growing.

‘I do want to hear it…’

Despite how calm he looked his voice was trembling just a tiny bit.

‘…But you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.’

They inhaled loudly. ‘No, I want to be able to talk to you about this sort of thing. Even in terms of helping myself get better…it’s important to me.’

The animator nodded gently, his head still resting on his bare knees, his knotted hair hanging loosely; his hair would be so nice if he took better care of it. In fact he would be so much more handsome in general if he hadn’t neglected his health so severely over the years.

The Imposter closed their eyes. The snapshots became clearer, the colours more saturated, the sounds crisper. The tear tracks staining the mechanic’s cheeks, the blood, the screaming. His agony.

‘That scar…it’s from when Kazuichi…’

The animator waited silently.

‘…He tried to saw his leg off.’

They heard his breathing hitch quietly.

 ‘…L-like Komaeda?’

‘Not exactly.’ The Imposter opened their eyes and turned to Ryota. They could feel the horror radiating off him, could see his hand quivering, his knuckles yellow as he gripped his knees. He had always been pathetically easy to read. ‘Nagito cut off his arm so that he could replace it with Enoshima’s. He wanted to act as a channel for despair, a vessel for her to live on through. Kazuichi’s aim wasn’t to sew Enoshima’s leg onto his body or anything; both her legs were crushed when she died. No…Kazuichi…just wanted to cut it off…’

Ryota began to drum his thumb agitatedly against the skin of his knee.

 ‘B-but… _why_?’

They felt sick. They could hear Kazuichi’s feverish cries in their ears as if he were right next to them.

‘…For the despair... of cutting your own leg off.’

Ryota was silent. All the Imposter could hear was his shallow breathing. He looked like he was going to throw up, like they probably did.

‘I was there when he did it…’ they continued. ‘It’s one of the things I remember more clearly…other things…not so much.’

Silence.

‘That’s what the program ended up doing to us: we’ve been left with… _fragments_ of events. Can be pretty…jarring…’

Silence. And then:

‘S-so…he _tried_ to cut it off…but…’

‘But chickened out, to put it bluntly; he…he cut into his leg and…began to…how do I put this? _Work his way through._ And then…I guess the pain just…got too much for him, or all the blood. Or maybe he remembered his true self, just for a moment. But he…stopped. Started sobbing, screaming for help…’

Halfway through their story Ryota’s hand had shot to his mouth. His skin was grey, his eyes watering, but there were still no tears.

‘Mikan was there…but she didn’t want him to stop, obviously, because it was in the name of despair. None of us knew what to do. Like Mikan…I’m not sure any of us even wanted to help him. To us he had been a weakling who needed despair to purge him of his cowardice…the despair of his suffering needed to _purify_ him…’

The animator didn’t say anything. He didn’t look like he was able to.

‘…And my memories of it end there. I can’t tell you any more. Like I said, there are other events that have been entirely erased from my mind. How Ibuki got those stitches, for example.’

Both Ryota and the Imposter’s gazes travelled to the group of their classmates playing in the sea. There was Ibuki, howling with laughter in Fuyuhiko’s red face, soaking the other two by slapping at the water to the side of her with both arms. Her skin was exposed; she wore a bikini. They could just about make out the jagged black lines running up her side, starting at her lower thigh. The wounds ran on from her tattoo; it was hard to know where the tattoo ended and the real stiches began.

‘…I’ve…I’ve been wondering…a-about them as well…’ Ryota’s voice was muffled, his hand still covering the lower half of his face in an attempt not to start retching.

‘Well I can’t tell you how she got them; as I say, I don’t remember. I just remember that it made her sick. _Really sick._ She must have…made the cuts herself…and they got infected pretty quickly…’

All of a sudden something came flooding back to them. A feeling. Some remnant of a memory. Something terrifyingly powerful. The world around the Imposter started spinning and blurring, their heartbeat thumping in the back of their mouth as panic welled up inside them. When they spoke again their voice was somehow detached from their body, as if it were coming from another person.

‘…God…all of us…we really thought she was going to die. And I remember…it was weird…but part of me…no, _more_ than that…I _wanted_ her to die…you know…I _really, really wanted her to not wake up_ because _…the **despair** \- ‘_

‘S-sagishi!’ Something cut through their frenzy, through the putrid blackness consuming their mind. They felt a hand on their shoulder, a weight that rapidly anchored them back to the beach, the waves crashing in their ears, back to Ryota sitting next to them and listening to their stories.  ‘S-stop! You don’t need to tell me any more!’

They were stunned for a while, able to do nothing but blink idiotically in the animator’s face. He was looking up at them, lips pressed together anxiously, skin still unbelievably pale, yet a certain determination in his eyes, a strength that was rare to see in him. As time went on they were able to register more and more. They exhaled and pinched the bridge of their nose with thick fingers.

‘…I’m sorry…thinking about it all…it can be… _difficult_ …’

‘…But the important thing is you don’t feel the same way anymore, do you. You don’t want Mioda to…to die now, right?’

There was something so different than usual to his voice, yet somehow overwhelmingly familiar. Then it hit them; his voice…reminded them of _their_ voice. The voice they used on him when trying to calm him down or reassure him. In any other situation they probably would have been filled with an overwhelming sense of pride and warmth, but the fact that they were talking about wanting their best friend to die…kind of a dampener.

‘No...’ they swallowed, a gluey lump lodged in their throat. ‘No, of course I don’t.’

Ryota offered a tiny, weak smile, his hand still resting on their shoulder. ‘Well...that’s what’s important, right?’

‘It is,’ they replied as confidently as they could manage. Second by second the despair clogging their mind was melting away. Melting away because of _him._

The pair went silent. Ryota drew his hand away from them gently and began picking at his little toe again. It came to the Imposter’s attention that he’d still only taken three or four bites of his meal.

‘…Oi, don’t think I’m going to let you leave that.’

Ryota turned to them pleadingly.

‘…I, uh, honestly Sagishi, I really, _really_ don’t feel hungry right now. Not after…’ He looked like he might puke at any second; he always did have a weak stomach. Not that they currently felt a whole lot better. But that understanding wasn’t going to get in the way of their duty.

They sighed. ‘I asked you whether you wanted to hear about Kazuichi and you said yes. It’s not my problem that it made you feel unwell; I told you I wasn’t giving you a choice in the matter, now _eat the stew.’_

He huffed childishly and looked as if he wanted to retort but couldn’t find the words. With jerking movements, he snatched the container of nikujaga from the blanket and dug his spoon into it almost aggressively, shovelling the meat into his mouth and looking strained as he forced himself to swallow some down, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to his forehead likely due to the nausea. At least their mothering approach helped. Sometimes. Taking care of him could be such a trial, made all the more tedious due to the fact that _he wasn’t a child anymore_. He was 22. 22 years old. And they _still_ had to make sure he ate enough and went to sleep at a reasonable time. The whole thing was ridiculous, or at least it _would_ be in any other situation, or if the person they had to look after was anyone other than him.

‘You know…’ he spoke up weakly through a mouthful of stew ‘the fact that you all have scars like that…you can call me out if what I’m saying out of line, but…’

They could feel where he was going, what he was attempting to say.

‘…But…they act as a testament. Proof that we survived, that we overcame despair,’ they finished with a small smile, their eyes fixed to their classmates. On Sonia and the burn marks on her back peeking out from under her sundress. On Fuyuhiko and his permanently closed eye. On Mahiru and the pale cuts running in criss-crosses up and down her arms.

‘Well…yeah, exactly…’ they could hear the smile in his voice. But all of a sudden a question sprang to mind, one that they’d been curious about for a long time.

‘…And you?’ They glanced at the animator whose eyes darted to meet theirs in return.

‘What do you mean?’

They took a deep breath.

‘Ryota, I’ve been wanting to ask you…and, I mean, I answered your question about Kazuichi, so surely you can do the same for me…are you…hurt?’

His eyes widened and he looked briefly alarmed.

‘…Hurt?’

‘You know what I mean; during the killing game…did you get injured or something?’

As moments of sticky silence passed Ryota began to look more and more confused and stressed.

‘S-sagishi where’s all this even coming from? I’m fin- ‘

‘I’ve noticed since you’ve been here,’ they interrupted brusquely, silencing the nervous young man instantly. ‘You’ve looked…in pain. And you know nothing you try to keep secret gets past me.’

They’d noticed how at dinner he’d sometimes grimace for no apparent reason, his body tensing and folding in on itself just slightly. The other day he’d played table football in the hotel on a team with Ibuki against Gundam and Sonia; he had scored a goal and, in some bizarre form of celebration, Ibuki had cackled with laughter and elbowed him in the stomach with all her might. Ryota had cried out loudly and doubled over, wrapping both arms around his middle. It was enough to make Sonia rush to his aid while Ibuki stood there looking guilty and scratching her head, muttering that she ‘didn’t think she’d hit him _that_ hard.’ The Imposter had just spectated concernedly. In general, he seemed very…protective of his abdomen, often clutching at the clothing surrounding his stomach as if he were attempting to shield it. Although this was all just the Imposter’s speculation and he could be absolutely fine. They just wanted him to prove it.

‘I’m honestly not hurt,’ he sighed through a faint smile, as though he were attempting to reassure them. It wasn’t working. ‘I appreciate you worrying about me but- ‘

‘Sorry if I’m being forceful, but can you prove it?’

The animator bit his lip and began picking his nails. Disgusting habits of his.

‘P-prove it?’

‘Lift up your shirt.’ Their eyes were glued to his stomach, to the sea of thick, neon-pink hoody covering up the skin; skin that they hadn’t had a chance to see because he so adamantly refused to go swimming. They were sure something was under there.

Ryota’s face had turned a bright pink.

‘M-my s-shirt!? Sagishi, I’m not- ‘

‘C’mon, it’s just me. You can do it with your back to everyone else; they won’t even notice. Please, Ryota - if there is nothing wrong with you I want to know for my own peace of mind.’

Silence. A dot of blood appeared on Ryota’s lip when he ripped a piece of skin off a little bit too far.

More silence.

Finally, the animator let out a bitter, exhausted sigh, running his nails through his hair and beginning to scratch anxiously. ‘…Alright, fine, I’ll…I’ll show you, but you need to not overreact, okay? Please? It’s not…it looks pretty gross, but it’s really not that bad.’

They nodded firmly; so they had been right. They fought off the urge to scold him for lying to their face. The pair swivelled around in their positions on the blanket so they were facing away from the action down the beach. Their gaze settling intently on his stomach, his pale hands slowly and unsteadily began wandering to the hem of the hoody. He took a deep, shaky breath as if he were composing himself before gripping the material and yanking it upwards in one sharp motion. The Imposter’s eyes shot open and their whole body went cold.

‘As I said…’ Ryota’s voice was quiet, shaky, as he bared the inky blue and red splotches blooming across his midsection that bled onto his sharply protruding ribs as brown and yellow stains. ‘…It’s not like I’m _hurt…_ just a bit of bruising…’

‘…My _God_ …’ Without realising it their hand had wandered to the flat expanse of his abdomen, stubby fingers ghosting over the dark galaxies streaking across the skin. Ryota’s regular breathing had halted. Taking note of this they made especially careful not to press too hard. God, he was too _thin._

‘…Ryota…why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?’ They meant to sound angry but their voice came out as nothing more than a stunned whisper. ‘Your…your stomach…it’s a _mess_ …!’

The animator became gradually tenser the longer they touched him, the longer his horrendous bruising was exposed. ‘B-because it’s really gross…and it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I _kept_ it from you…honestly, I thought it would have faded at least a bit by now…’

They applied a small amount of pressure with two fingers to the darkest patch. Ryota let out a whimpering sound, his body jolting slightly.

‘This could be serious…’ they spoke sternly, narrowing their eyes at the deep blacks and reds peppered around his belly button.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the animator exhaled, then inhaled sharply when they moved their fingers up to his ribs. ‘I-if it was something serious I’d know by now. It’s just a s-stupid bruise, it’ll go away…’

Of course, he was probably right.

‘We should…still get Mikan to look at you- ‘

‘N-no!’ Ryota physically flinched and drew his body away. His breathing was suddenly heavy, frantic. The Imposter could only stay still, hold their hands out in front of them as if they were trying to calm down a wild animal, trying to manipulate their expression to incorporate some form of reassurance. Ryota was hesitant, unsteady, but slowly edged towards them again, unfolding himself before them and allowing them to further examine the bruising.

‘Don’t…’ he sighed. ‘…D-don’t make me see Tsumiki. _Please._ I c-can’t be alone with her yet, I j-just _can’t.’_

They acknowledged the request silently, begrudgingly; they didn’t know what had happened between the nurse and the animator because he refused to talk about it. At the same time, he refused to be left alone with Mikan, or sometimes even to speak to her in a group. It was something they didn’t want to press him on, a source of trauma that it didn’t feel okay to tease out of him. Whatever Mikan had done to him…it was after she’d become a Remnant. That much they could be certain of. That fact alone told half the story.

‘…But…but who the hell even did this to you?!’ A question they regretted immediately because the animator’s whole body seemed to shudder.

‘No…d-don’t ask that, please…’ he spoke softly, desperately, grimacing in pain when they applied some pressure to a different spot. They could feel him subtly pulling away from them, resisting them, wanting so much for this to stop. ‘It doesn’t matter…he’s…he’s dead now.’

The only thing that told them was that it hadn’t been Kyosuke Munakata. Dead or not, they wanted to know who had made a conscious decision to smack him about him like this, to do such lasting damage. Who would look at him as any kind of threat? Who would feel the necessity to do this to him?

‘It was a killing game…’ Ryota muttered uncomfortably, arching his back slightly under the Imposter’s thumb gliding across the sharp, delicate laddering of his ribs, the area where the bruising had begun to fade. ‘Tensions were running high, you know? I…I provoked him…every time…’

‘ _Every time?!_ ’ the Imposter uttered in disbelief, pulling away from the young man’s stomach to look him in the eye. Ryota looked unspeakably relieved to be free of the Imposter’s scrutiny, pulling his hoody back over his abdomen, slumping his shoulders and breathing out loudly. ‘You mean the guy did it more than once?!’

‘S-sagishi, will you please calm down?!’ He clenched his fists at his side. ‘I’m literally fine now, it d-doesn’t matter anymore! Yes, he did it more than once, who cares?!’

They gritted their teeth; they knew this guy was dead, that there was no reason to feel vengeful and defensive about it. But they just felt so _angry,_ so personally offended that someone would look at the frail, timid, soft-spoken animator and even _think_ of doing this to him. They didn’t want to distress him, to make him relive any pain…but…

The thought of him being attacked, of him crying out in pain, of them not being there to help him to his feet.

It made them want to scream.

‘…Ryota- ‘

‘I really don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?’ His eyes darted downwards and fixed themselves to the floor. Just like they used to. ‘He…in the end, he hurt a lot of people but he…saved all our lives! He sacrificed himself for all of us, just for _me_ to take advantage of his bravery and do…and _do what I did…’_

There it was; all of a sudden, that blazing self-hatred bubbling up, spilling out into his increasingly bitter tone of voice and his arms that slunk over each other across his torso and his skeletal fingers that clamped onto his shoulders as his body begun to fold in on itself.

‘Just… _please_ drop it, okay? I’m s-sorry, I know you t-told me about what happened with Souda and _I **hate** _ that I’m not as _goddamn_ strong as you are _!_ But I…I-I can’t talk about this yet…about all those people that died because of me, _especially_ him, b-b-because to talk about how much it hurt when he kicked me isn’t…h-how he d-d-deserves to be spoken about by s-someone like me who… _who should have b-been the one to- ‘_

He fell silent. Without even realising it their hand had settled onto his shoulder.

And there it was. Equilibrium. A shadowy, perverse, alien kind of equilibrium, but an equilibrium nonetheless. Their purpose, their reason for existing crashing down on them with the force of the violet sea on the horizon. Recollections of the academy, of the animator’s dimly lit bedroom and his silly outbursts and his self-doubt and that timid smile as he looked up at them with hope somewhat restored. Then that time in the hospital when his eyes had fluttered open and their heart had swelled and burst open and they had started to cry. That sense of being…

Whole.

Because that was how the pair made each other whole; through that twisted symbiosis that neither could live without. An ouroboros.

Equilibrium. Something they needed now more than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> i've kinda hit a wall with blue moon (my other fic) but i fully fully intend on continuing that, i promise!  
> recently the danganronpa section of my mind has been really preoccupied with post kibou-hen scenarios! so much so that i haven't been inspired to write more zetsubou-hen stuff - but i will!  
> so yeah this kinda ended up as a compilation of some jabberwock island oneshots between sagishi and ryota. there's more...regarding headcanons about the whole of the 77th class during and post ultimate despair...but i need to publish this and focus on real life for a while.  
> and THEN go back to blue moon (i haven't abandoned it i promise :0 the next chapter is a christmassy one, so the closer it gets to christmas the more fitting it will be! )  
> if there are spelling mistakes tell me - i'm publishing this at three in the morning coming off an all-nigher the previous night so am likely to miss errors!


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